Читать книгу The Girl Who Wouldn't Stay Dead - Cassie Miles - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Emily knew she was asleep and dreaming hard. There was no other explanation for the weird images that popped into her mind and distracted her. She needed to wake up. There was something she had to find. The object or person or place was unclear, but her quest was urgent—a matter of life and death.

But she couldn’t ignore the field of psychedelic flowers that reminded her of a Peter Max poster from the sixties, and she couldn’t pause as she waltzed into a paint-splattered Jackson Pollock room with a series of framed paintings on the walls. Some were classics: melting Dali timepieces, a servant girl with a pearl earring, Tahitian women bathing by a stream. Others were by the not-yet-famous artists that she was showing in her Denver gallery. The corridor took on a more formal aspect, and it felt like she was on a personal tour of the Louvre Museum, accompanied by a grinning Mona Lisa.

Swiveling, she found herself surrounded by mist. Pink clouds spun like cotton candy around her feet and knees. When she tried to push them away, her left arm wouldn’t move. From shoulder to wrist, the arm was frozen. Pursing her lips, she blew, and the haze cleared.

Connor Gallagher strode toward her. This was the Manhattan version of Connor, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit with a striped silk necktie. Though neatly groomed, his brown hair was unruly, curling over his collar. His cocoa-brown eyes penetrated her defenses.

She sighed as she placed this moment in time—a memory from several months ago when she had been trying to decide whether or not to file for divorce. She’d already left Manhattan, separated from Jamison and was working hard to establish a new life in Denver, her hometown. Connor had come all the way from New York to talk business with her. As soon as she saw him strolling up the sidewalk to her bungalow, she forgot about the contracts, documents and the prenuptial agreement she’d signed.

Connor filled her mind. She liked him...a lot. He frequently starred in her erotic fantasies. In real life, she hadn’t seen him without his swimming trunks, but she suspected he could give Michelangelo’s naked sculpture David a run for his money. In addition to her appreciation for his body, she was fascinated by his moods, the sound of his laughter and the shape of his mouth.

Her memory continued. They’d met. They’d hugged. He’d smelled warm and spicy like cinnamon. And then Connor had mentioned Jamison, asking if he also favored divorce.

She didn’t give a damn what Jamison Riggs wanted. Any love she’d had for him was over. She’d been living apart from him since the night when she’d found him in bed with the head partner from his Wall Street investment firm, a tall redhead with incredibly straight hair and who never smiled. Jamison had expected Emily to forgive him. He’d told her not to worry, that he was only trying to sleep his way to the top. As if that was supposed to be okay.

Emily huffed. She didn’t believe a single word that spilled from his lying lips. Other people had warned her about his cheating, and it didn’t take long for Emily to find evidence of other infidelities with at least three other women. Jamison had been having a wild, sexy ride. Frankly, when she asked Connor to come to Denver, she’d been hoping for a taste of the same.

Sure, there were plenty of legitimate business interests they could discuss, but those weren’t foremost in her mind. She wanted Connor to embrace her, caress her and sweep her off her feet. She deserved an affair of her own. But no! Technically, she was still married, and Connor had too much integrity to betray his friend, even if Jamison was a dirty dog who didn’t deserve the loyalty.

The day after Connor returned to his Manhattan law practice, she’d contacted a lawyer in Denver and started the paperwork. The divorce had taken months. So many other things had happened, a whirlwind of events.

Her unconscious mind played calliope music. Boop-boop-beedle-deedle-doop-doop. She was on a carousel, riding a painted pony. She hadn’t known Jamison was sick until he was terminal, and she only saw him once before he died. In light of his unexpected death, her divorce seemed cold and unfeeling. Even in a dream state, she felt a little bit guilty. If she’d known he was ill, she might have forgiven him and nursed him through his final days. Or not.

Leaving the merry-go-round, she hiked up a grassy knoll to an old-fashioned boot hill cemetery. She’d wanted to attend Jamison’s funeral and memorial service, but his maiden aunt Glenda, matriarch of the family, had made it clear that she was unwelcome. The family had kept her away, almost as though they were hiding something.

Jamison shouldn’t be her problem anymore. They were divorced, and he had died. But there seemed to be a connection. Her car had been run off the road after leaving the Riggses’ house. Someone wanted her dead, had tried to kill her. She had to fight back. She needed to wake up. Oh, God, I’m too tired.

Someone held her hand and comforted her. For now, that would have to be enough. She drifted back into silent stillness.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Connor sat beside the hospital bed and patted Emily’s right hand. She hadn’t moved, but one of the monitors started beeping. A sweet-faced nurse whose name tag said Darlene came into the room and made adjustments to silence the alarm.

“Has she spoken?” Darlene asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “But her eyelids have been moving. It’s like she’s watching a movie inside her head.”

“Rapid eye movement, we call it REM. Nothing to worry about,” she said in the perky tone of a confirmed optimist. “I’ll notify the doctor. We don’t want her to wake up too soon.”

“Why is that?”

“They use the induced coma to protect the brain and let it relax while the swelling goes down. She needs plenty of rest.”

Though he didn’t know much about neurological sciences, he’d talked to a brain surgeon in New York who advised him about Denver-based referrals. His brain surgeon friend had given him an idea of all the stuff that could go wrong, ranging from stroke to seizure. Amnesia was a possibility, as was epilepsy. Head wounds were unpredictable and could be devastating.

He wished he could be as cheerful as Darlene, but Connor was a realist. “It seems like she wants to wake up,” he said. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“Well, I certainly think so.” Nurse Darlene pressed her fingers across her mouth as if she’d said too much. “I’m not qualified to give opinions. But if you’re asking me, this young lady is going to make a full recovery and come back to you.”

And maybe she’ll bring the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus with her. Connor forced a smile. The nurse wanted him to be happy, but she really didn’t know—nobody knew, not for certain—if Emily would be all right. “Thank you, Darlene.”

She patted his shoulder on her way out of the room. “Try to get some sleep, Connor. If you need anything, push the button and I’ll be here in a flash.”

Sleep was an excellent idea, but he didn’t dare relax his vigilance; Deputy Sandoval had told him that Emily’s accident wasn’t an accident. Somebody had tried to kill her, and Connor needed to keep watch.

There was a lot to be done today. First order of business this morning would be to hire a private detective. He’d checked with the investigator who worked for his law firm in Manhattan and had got the name of a local guy. Though Connor didn’t doubt Sandoval’s competence, the young deputy might appreciate outside assistance from a PI—a guy who could do computer research and help him figure out why Emily had been targeted.

And Connor also needed to hire a bodyguard. The county sheriff and Aspen police didn’t have the manpower to provide a cop who could stand outside her hospital room and keep watch 24/7. Also, Connor wasn’t sure he trusted the locals. There was a high probability that the cops knew the Riggs family and wouldn’t consider them to be a threat, even if they strolled into her hospital room carrying two crossbows and a loaded gun.

He squeezed Emily’s hand and smoothed the dark blond curls that weren’t covered by bandages. Even with a shiner and stitches across her forehead, she was uniquely beautiful. Her nose tilted up at the tip. Her bow-shaped lips were full. He brushed his thumb across her mouth. He’d never kissed those lips, except in a friendly way, and he was tempted to remedy that situation. Not appropriate. Kissing her while she was in a coma ranked high on the creepiness scale.

Besides, he wanted her to be awake when he finally expressed his pent-up longing. He whispered, “Emily, can you hear me?”

She said nothing, didn’t open her eyes and didn’t squeeze his hand.

He continued in a quiet voice, “There was a deputy who came in here last night. His name is Sandoval. He looks young but said he was thirty-two, and he’s smart.”

Her silence disturbed him. It was too passive. Being with Emily meant activity, laughter and a running commentary of trivial facts, usually about art.

“Sandoval investigated,” he said. “He found skid marks on the road that might indicate two vehicles. One was your Hyundai, and the other had a wider wheelbase, like a truck. He couldn’t re-create the scene perfectly, but he thought the truck bumped your car toward the edge. You slammed on the brake, but it wasn’t enough. You crashed through the guardrail.”

She must have been scared out of her mind. If Sandoval’s theory was correct, a lot more investigation would be required. The sheriff’s department would need to haul the wreckage of her Hyundai up the hill so the forensic people could go over it. And Sandoval could start looking for the truck that had forced her off the road.

“Do you remember? Why would someone come after you?”

His only answer came from the blips and beeps from the machines monitoring her life signs while she was in the coma.

He asked, “Did you see who was driving?”

Even if it was possible for her to comprehend what he was saying, she might not be able to identify her attacker. He continued, “I don’t have evidence, but the attack on you has something to do with the Riggs family. If not, the timing is too coincidental.”

He could easily imagine a member of the family or one of their minions chasing her in a truck and forcing her car off the road. It would help if he knew why. There had to be a reason.

“On the phone, you told me not to come,” he said. “You expected things to get ugly between you and the Riggs family, and you didn’t want to force me to take sides. Don’t you know, Emily? I’m on your side, always.”

Jamison’s dumb-ass infidelities had pretty much ended their decade-long friendship. Connor was outraged by the betrayal of Emily. He hated the humiliation she’d endured. When she left Jamison, he’d worked with her Denver lawyer to make sure that she was financially cared for. By juggling the assets she shared with her wealthy husband, he’d finagled a way for her to have enough cash to cover her move back to her hometown of Denver, rent a bungalow and set up her own little art gallery. When that money had run dry, Connor dipped into his own pocket.

He wanted her to have a good life, a beautiful life. As a friend, he’d always be close to her. It wasn’t hard to imagine being more than a friend. If only Jamison hadn’t met her first in Manhattan, he and Emily would have been a couple.

After he brushed a light kiss across her knuckles, he placed her hand on the blanket, went to the window and raised the shade. The mountain view was incredible as night faded into pale dawn. If the window had been open, he would have heard birds chirping while the sunlight spread across rock faces, dark green conifers and a bright golden stand of aspens.

For a long moment, he stood and drank in the spectacular landscape. Between his Brooklyn apartment and his Manhattan office, he hadn’t come into contact with this much nature in weeks. This scenery knocked him out.

He checked his wristwatch. Five minutes past six o’clock meant it was after eight in New York. He pulled out his phone to check in with his assistant. Cases were pending, but there was nothing that required his immediate attention.

It was more important to deal with Emily’s medical issues. Last night, he’d culled the list of reputable neurologists and neurosurgeons down to a few. He needed to talk to them, to select a doctor for her. Then, he’d arrange for transportation to the hospital in Denver.

When Sandoval opened the door, Connor pivoted away from the window. Instantly alert to the possibility of danger, he added a mental note to his list: buy a weapon. A handsome black man with a shaved head followed the deputy into the room. He extended his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Jaiden Wellborn, FBI.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you,” Connor said as he shook SAC Wellborn’s hand. “You were at a memorial service for Jamison Riggs. Two weeks ago in Manhattan.”

“The service was well attended, two hundred and forty-seven people. Was there a reason you noticed me?”

“I liked your suit.” Connor didn’t usually pay any attention to men’s clothing, but Wellborn had stood out. His attire had been appropriate for a memorial service but not lacking in style. The man knew how to dress. Even now, at a few minutes after six in the morning in a hospital in Aspen, the agent looked classy in crocodile boots, jeans, a leather jacket and a neck scarf. “Your suit was dark blue, perfectly tailored.”

“Anything else?”

“You weren’t milling around in the crowd and seemed more interested in taking photos with your phone. That made me think you might be a reporter. Then I spotted your ankle holster. I had you pegged as a cop, Agent Wellborn.”

He didn’t bother denying Connor’s conclusion. “Did it surprise you to see a cop at your friend’s memorial?”

“I knew there was an investigation underway.” Whenever a healthy, young man succumbs to a mysterious illness, suspicions are raised, especially when the victim is filthy rich and deeply involved with complex investments and offshore banking. Supposedly, the cause of death was a rare form of cancer, but Connor didn’t believe it. “The medical examiner ran a lot of tests, and the police were reluctant to release his body for cremation.”

“Our only significant evidence came from the autopsy,” Wellborn said. “You might have heard that the real COD was a sophisticated, untraceable poison that was administered over an extended period of time.”

“Is that true?” Connor asked.

“I can’t say.”

“Is it classified?”

“I don’t have a definite answer about the poison. He didn’t suffer much until the last week to ten days, and the doctors focused on treating symptoms and saving his life rather than identifying obscure poisons.”

Connor glanced toward the bed where Emily lay quietly. It didn’t seem right to talk about this in front of her. Though she and Jamison were divorced, they’d been married for almost seven years. “Can we take this conversation into the hallway?”

“Go ahead,” Sandoval said. “I’ll stay with Emily.”

After being cooped up in the hospital room with all the beeping and blipping monitors, he was glad to step outside for a moment. The pale yellow corridors and shiny-clean nurses’ station were a welcome relief. He led the way around a corner and down a flight of stairs to a lounge with vending machines. Though the coffee was fresh brewed and free, the vending-machine snacks were a typical array of semistale cookies and candy. The selection looked good to Connor, which meant he must have really been starving.

He fed dollars into the machine and pulled out two chocolate bars with almonds. As he tore off the wrapping, he said, “I heard the investigation centered on Jamison’s Wall Street investment firm.”

“And involved several agencies, including the SEC and NASDAQ,” Wellborn said as he poured himself a coffee and added creamer. “I’m with the FBI’s White-Collar Crime Unit. We found a couple of shady glitches in his dealings, but nothing that rose to the level of fraud or insider trading. A few people in his office hated his arrogance. There were clients who felt cheated.”

“There always are.”

“Bottom line, our investigation covered all the bases. We didn’t find a significant motive for murder.”

“Nobody contacted me,” Connor said as he peeled the wrapper off the second candy bar. “Technically, I haven’t been Jamison’s attorney for years, but I stay in touch with Emily. Did you investigate her?”

“Not as much as we should have. The attack last night was proof of that.”

“Are you implying that Emily had something to do with her ex-husband’s death?” It seemed preposterous since Emily and Jamison hadn’t seen each other in months, much less had enough time together for a long-term poisoning.

Wellborn shrugged and sipped his coffee. Apparently, the feds hadn’t ruled out Emily—in the role of hostile ex-wife—as a suspect.

“Why are you here?” Connor asked.

“I’m looking into the attack on Emily as it might relate to her ex-husband’s death.”

“As far as I know, there was very little contact between them.”

“You didn’t know the terms of the will. She inherited a seven-bedroom mansion in Aspen plus all the furnishings. The artwork alone is valued at nearly fourteen million.”

A pretty decent motive for murder.

Connor’s phone rang. The caller was Sandoval.

The young deputy’s voice was nervous. “Connor, you need to get back to Emily’s room. Right away.”

Candy bar in hand, Connor dashed through the hospital corridors and up the stairs. Darlene the nurse beamed at him as he ran past her.

The door to Emily’s room stood open.

Her bed was empty.